


Strands

by entanglednow



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur practices distance</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strands

  
The long cut on his forehead is more than obvious in the mirror, even through the untidy fall of Arthur's own hair. He’d been too close to the glass breaking when the bullet smashed the window. He's lucky none of it reached his eyes. Eyes don't grow back, not in the real world.

Eames' hand is already lifting, trying to judge the depth for himself.

Arthur smacks it away. "I can do it myself."

"And it will be hideously untidy," Eames' reflection tells. "I know how you hate to be untidy."

Arthur frowns, but there's no protest he can gather up against that. He turns around, reluctantly, pressed back against the hard line of the sink, then sat there, porcelain cold through his pants.

Eames moves his hair with two fingers. Arthur can feel the bite where it peels away from the cut. He fights a wince, fights a frown even harder.

There's a sympathetic rush of air against his cheek and he looks up, can't help himself. Eames' eyes are fixed on the sharp line of pain, face far too close.

Arthur looks away, notices that the elbow of his jacket is torn.

"You can buy yourself a nice new suit," Eames says smoothly and Arthur thinks he should be annoyed that he's become that easy to read. "Nicer even than this one, hmm."

Arthur says nothing, watching the way his knee brushes the trailing edge of Eames' jacket.

Eames' fingers are careful, more careful than Arthur expects, though he shouldn't be so surprised. For all his frustrating ability to irritate him there's always a precision to Eames. The right tool for the right job. Something Arthur can't help but grudgingly respect.

The slow shift of his hips into the half-circle of Arthur's thighs, the way his fingertips brush his skin as he lays perfect butterfly stitches across his forehead. It's strangely intimate, it's distracting in a way Eames has no business being

"I think you enjoy it, all this reckless gunplay without a safety net," Eames says quietly. Arthur lifts his eyes, briefly, and finds a smile above him. He scowls at it and feels the warning line of pain.

Eames tuts and takes a step, pushes at the hair that's fallen down again. He's well within Arthur's personal space now. Enough to object to, under normal circumstances. One movement, one shift and Arthur will have Eames caught between his thighs. He'll be able to feel more than just the curious and distant brush of him through his clothes.

"Though I wouldn't recommend indulging yourself too often." Eames leans in, heavy and warm, thumb curving over the bridge of his nose and Arthur stops breathing completely, skin too hot, palms sweating round the edge of the sink.

He very carefully tries to ignore it all. Though the rush of warmth across his face he can't control, can't avoid. The forced tension of him does nothing to prevent the slow, heavy ache of arousal from turning into something real, something noticeable.

He barely realises what he intends to do before his legs shift together.

Eames is more solid than he expects and he stills between Arthur's legs, breath caught in his throat.

"The real world has consequences you know," he says, quiet and lazy, like Arthur hasn't just pushed their antagonistic flirting further than it's ever been. Further than Eames has ever dared. Though it feels like reckless stupidity more than bravery. Or perhaps Arthur has some sort of head injury and can't be held accountable for any of it.

Either way, Arthur doesn't feel like punishing himself. "Shut up."

There's a breath of amusement, a laugh, half startled and cut in two.

Arthur frowns again, skin tightening and stinging where Eames has so carefully put it back together again - and then he's pulling, fingers caught in fabric, legs tight and then aggressive, sliding on the chill of the sink until they're crushed together.

The last place they touch, the very last, leaves them kissing. Because they have to be different, have to fight it all. Or maybe Eames just doesn't deserve to be given anything he wants that easily.

Arthur's not the only one who's hard, not the only one who makes a noise when he discovers as much.

Arthur doesn't leave any room for questions. He just _demands_. Eames tugs at the fly of his pants, twisting a hand and sliding it in, quick and ungentle, not even bothering to ask what this is, what they‘re doing. Stitching protests, loudly, but Arthur can't quite bring himself to care, far too interested in the tight grasps of Eames fingers and the heat of his mouth. He has a thigh pushed up and in, braced between Eames legs for the slow, dirty shove of his hips. Arthur's back ends up ground into the sink in a steady thump of pain. It's not enough to make him stop, not enough to do anything but leave everything sharper, more immediate, more _dangerous_.

Arthur has to tip his head back and stare at the white ceiling while Eames hand works on him, mouth shifting to his ear and there's a slow stream of warm breath and suggestions, the heavily accented roll of it making it all filth. Arthur gasps and shoves with his hips, too cramped to get anything in the way of leverage or force. His thigh aches and burns where Eames presses into it, too hard and not hard enough.

They're going to make a devastating mess and he doesn't even care.

When Arthur comes it's on a hard, punched-out breath, a shudder of bliss and relief. Eames bites the curve of his ear and shoves into him, crushes him back into the sink hard enough to rattle his spine.

  



End file.
